


Origin Stories

by batyatoon



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Childhood, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 09:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4132221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batyatoon/pseuds/batyatoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew Wells and five buried childhood memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin Stories

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [KiranInBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiranInBlue/) for brainstorming, beta reading, and sundry suggestions. (If you're an Andrew Wells fan you should check out her fics, seriously.)

**1.**

A few months after Tucker Wells's sixth birthday, he stops letting his little brother hug him.

The first rebuff sends four-and-a-half-year-old Andrew off wailing, to collapse in utter misery at the foot of the stairs and to be gathered up a few minutes later by their mother, who sits down with him in her lap right there on the bottom step and murmurs, _tell me what's wrong._

 _Tucker doesn't love me anymore and I don't know why_, he whimpers, and sobs into her shoulder like his world is ending.

She holds him through the weeping, and rocks him gently and rubs his back until the tears trail off into hiccuping gulps. And then she says _I'm gonna tell you a secret_. And when she has his attention, continues: _Sometimes it can be hard for some people to show that they love you. But that doesn't mean they don't. I promise you, Tucker does love you. He's your brother, and that means he's always going to love you. Even when it's hard for him to show it._

He believes every word. And never really stops believing it, then or later. 

* * *

  **2.**

He's eight years old and waiting with Tucker on the curb outside the library, shoulders starting to ache with the weight of all the books in his backpack, the November chill slowly working its way through his jacket. They've been waiting for almost an hour; the library's been closed for just about half that time, and the sun's been down longer than that.

Andrew knows perfectly well that their parents haven’t _forgotten_ them, parents don’t just _forget_ their _kids_ , that would be ridiculous. Maybe they got caught in traffic. Or maybe the car broke down, just as they were setting out to pick up him and Tucker, and they haven’t been able to get it running yet. Or maybe there was an accident --

No, probably the car broke down.

He’s long since stopped suggesting reasons to Tucker, or trying to say anything to him at all; the last few things he said met only with _shut up, Android_ , and then with a simmering silence.

A car pulls up in front of them, and the driver’s-side window rolls down. _Hey_ , says a young woman's voice, concerned and gentle, _you kids okay?_

 _We're fine, just waiting for our dad_ , says Tucker, with the stiff tone that means he's scared but hiding it, overlaid with the barest minimum of be-polite-to-grownups.

 _Is he late? You look kind of lost. And cold_. The woman leans out of the window and gives them a worried look. _And it's getting dark; you shouldn't be out here by yourselves. You want me to take you to the police station?_

Andrew hesitates -- they've had the never-talk-to-strangers speech, of course, but surely a kidnapper wouldn't talk about going to the police? And he really is getting cold. And she’s pretty, and looks friendly, and kind.

He takes a tentative step closer, and she smiles. _Hop in, there's room in the backseat._

Tucker grabs for his arm, hissing in his ear _are you stupid?_ He pulls away, and the recoil sends him a lot closer to the car than he planned on getting, close enough to glimpse his own wide-eyed scared face in the side mirror --

\-- and the empty seat where the driver's reflection should be.

A cold that has nothing to do with the weather sweeps through him, and he turns his head to look at the driver, unable to make any other move at all. She's still smiling, but it doesn't look even a little kind or friendly anymore.

 _They're here,_ Tucker says loudly, and it's like a rubber band snapping; Andrew jerks back from the car, looks over his shoulder to see the headlights of their own familiar car approaching. The car beside him revs sharply, and speeds away before he can get another look at the driver's face -- or at the reflection that isn't there.

On the way home their father scolds Tucker for letting Andrew talk to a stranger, and Tucker snaps back that it wouldn't have happened if he'd come to pick them up on time like he promised, and Andrew leans his forehead against the car window and tries to tune out the rising angry voices and the memory of the woman's smile. 

* * *

  **3.**

There's a spot in the linen closet in the upstairs hallway, where the closet space is wider than the door by almost half. It doesn't extend to the upper shelves, but seven-year-old Andrew is small enough to squeeze down into it, put his back against the wall and push on the folded towels with his bare feet and make himself a little burrow where Tucker can't find him.

It's a game, of course. Just a game. Hide and seek. And if he doesn't get found it'll stay hide and seek, instead of hide and get punched in the stomach or hide and get your arm twisted. If he can just stay hidden until Tucker's out of his bad mood.

He has to hold his breath if Tucker opens the closet door, or even if he comes close in the hallway, but he's good at holding his breath. He'll be a great swimmer if he gets to keep taking lessons, he's pretty sure. He shuts his eyes and holds his breath and pretends he’s swimming now, diving all the way to the bottom of the pool and staying there, everything cool and pale blue and shimmering all around him.

(He should keep a flashlight in here, maybe. And a book.)

No sound of Tucker or anyone else anywhere near. He lets his breath trickle out, softly. But it’s too early to come out.

He calls back the image of that shimmering blueness. This time, though, there’s a brighter shimmer at the bottom of the pool; when he dives through it, he’s in a different place, under the ocean except he can breathe here, like Aquaman or Namor. And there's light, soft light of many colors, coming from thousands of tiny luminous bubbles. (He's proud of that word, _luminous_ ; he learned it from a book. It will be years before he learns that it isn't pronounced _luminious_.)

There are sea creatures gathering around, everything from huge sharks and octopi to guppies smaller than his pinky finger, and he realizes without surprise that they've all been waiting for him. He's expected; he's welcome; he's wanted here. He’s going to be a hero.

Countless voices are going up now through the bright water, cheering, rejoicing, calling his name: _Andrew, Andrew, Andrew_. 

* * *

  **4.**

He's ten the year _Star Trek VI_ comes out, and nearly feverish with excitement over it. But his parents are busy, and he's not allowed to go by himself, which means the only way he's gonna get to see it is if Tucker will take him.

On the school bus one chilly December morning, as they pass a wall plastered with movie posters, he finally gets up the nerve to ask. And his heart sinks as Tucker scoffs, _no, ugh, why would I wanna go see some stupid nerd movie?_ He pleads, but he knows already it isn’t going to be any use; he doesn’t have anything he can offer in exchange, not since their parents put their collective foot down on any future I’ll-be-your-slave-for-a-week trades. No chance he can talk Tucker around on this one.

Andrew doesn’t notice the kid who’s watching them until they’ve gone another few blocks. When he does, he’s not sure what to think of the look on his face -- it’s serious, like he’s wondering about something -- but the face itself is familiar; he’s in Tucker’s class. He can’t remember his name, though; mentally he dubs the kid Bastian Balthazar Bux. (He looks more like Bastian than the kid in the movie did, properly fat and pale and short, like the book says.)

When they get off the bus, Tucker shoulders on ahead as usual and Andrew finds himself stepping onto the sidewalk next to not-really-Bastian, who looks like he’s been waiting for him. _Hey_ , he says, shifting from one foot to the other while the other kids brush past them, _um, you’re … you’re Tucker’s brother, right?_

He nods, a bit uncertainly, and Bastian glances over his shoulder as though to make sure Tucker isn’t there before continuing in a lower voice. _So uh … do you really wanna see Star Trek?_

There’s no mockery in his tone, just honest curiosity, and nervousness, and maybe a little hope. It’s the only thing that gives Andrew the courage to answer _Uh huh_.

 _Cause my mom’s taking me for my birthday_ , Bastian continues, _and she said I could bring a friend, but uh, nobody I know wants to see it, so ..._ He hesitates. _Do you maybe wanna come with?_

He’s suddenly smiling so hard his face hurts, and it takes him two tries to say _Yeah! Yeah, for sure -- when are you going?_ , and then the bell rings and they have to hurry off to separate classrooms.

They find each other at morning recess, and trade names and home phone numbers. Andrew says he has to ask his parents to make sure it’s okay, and he’ll call as soon as he has an answer. Bastian’s real name turns out to be Jonathan.

 _Is your brother gonna give you a hard time about this?_ Jonathan asks over lunch, the two of them alone at the table with the cracked edge where nobody else wants to sit.

Andrew looks up from his lunch tray, abruptly nervous all over again. _What do you mean?_

He shrugs. _Just, he was kind of mean to you about it on the bus._

 _Oh_ , says Andrew, and laughs. _No, that wasn’t being mean, that’s just … that’s just Tucker. That’s just how he is. He’s not really mean once you get to know him._

Jonathan gives him a look like he’s not sure he believes that, or maybe like he’s not even sure whether or not Andrew means it, but doesn’t say anything more. 

* * *

  **5.**

He's six and the school year's just started, and he's made a friend in first grade: Jamie, who's almost the tallest boy in their class and can draw a really good dog and sings the best at circle time. He lives only a few blocks away, and Dad says Andrew can go over to Jamie's house on Saturday afternoon if Tucker goes with him, and if they're back by dinnertime.

On the way they agree tacitly, without a word spoken, that they'll consider that condition fulfilled once Tucker delivers Andrew to Jamie's door. It probably should occur to them that there will be trouble at home if they don't come back together, but dinnertime is hours away, practically forever.

Jamie's parents aren't home; his big brother Wally (thirteen, towering over them both) is ostensibly watching him, but actually watching movies with three of his friends downstairs. This means the basement is off limits to Jamie and Andrew, but that's okay; they go out in the backyard instead, and play fetch with Jamie's dog until it gets tired, and then Jamie goes inside and brings out his He-Man and Star Wars figures and they decide to build them a fort out of sticks. Darth Vader, they agree, is a way cooler bad guy than Skeletor, so he gets to be in charge and Skeletor will be his treacherous second in command. Princess Leia and the Sorceress can work together to be in charge of the good guys defending the fort. So it's boys against girls, Jamie says, and Andrew feels like maybe that's not exactly right but he says yeah, sort of, because it can be if Jamie wants it to be.

The afternoon drifts on, golden and endless. They get bored with the fort and go looking for dandelion puffs to stomp instead, and run around with the dog some more, and drink from the hose, and flop down in the shade and start planning out the battle again. Except Andrew's mind is only partly on the game, and mostly on how happy he is here, how much he likes Jamie, really _really_ likes him, wants to be friends with him forever.

(Even only weeks later, he forgets this part; he makes himself forget, pushes it away without understanding why, knowing dimly only that it's dangerous and wrong. Eventually he forgets what came after, too.)

There's a pause in the conversation, a comfortable kind of mutual silence, and Andrew breaks it by saying shyly _I want to kiss you_.

Jamie looks at him, a little uncertain, and says _like for pretend?_ and he says _yeah_ even though it isn't really, and Jamie says _okay._

And it's sheer bad luck that Wally and his friends have gotten bored with movies, and choose the next moment to come out into the backyard.

An adult might have heard the terror in Wally's voice, roaring _you fucking babyfag, get the fuck away from my brother!_ ; Andrew hears only the rage. It freezes him to the spot, even as Wally bears down on him with one hand reaching to grab, the other rising to strike.

He’s lying on the grass with his ears ringing and a taste like pennies in his mouth, and Wally’s saying _Jamie, go inside, get in the house now_, and he wants to protest but can’t get his breath back in time. Somebody hauls him up, and it’s just Wally and his friends out here with him now, all of them so much bigger and older and stronger than him, and they’re all looking at him like he’s something disgusting, like they hate him.

They don’t stop when he cries, or when he says _I’m sorry_ , over and over again.

It’s Tucker who finds him some time later, with the sun going down, curled up against a picket fence a few houses down the street from Jamie’s, his face a mess of dirt and tears and snot and blood. He didn't lie down on purpose; he just hurt too much to go any further, after they shoved him out onto the sidewalk and told him to run. He tries to explain but the words aren't coming out right, and Tucker isn't listening anyway, he just keeps saying frantically _come on, you gotta get up, we gotta get home, we're late_.

He has to help Andrew up, and put an arm around him to help him walk, and it's not a hug, not really, but it's almost a hug, and it's close enough to make his aching heart swell with gratitude. _He does love me. He really does_ \--

At home Tucker gives the barest explanation: _Andrew hurt himself and it took us longer to get home cause I had to like carry him_. He gets praise for taking such good care of his little brother, and Andrew gets sympathy for his bruises and a tissue for his bloody nose and a stinging antiseptic wipe for his scrapes and a long soak in a hot bath after dinner. And lying in the warm water with his eyes shut, he goes back over what happened, tries to imagine Tucker getting there sooner, tries to imagine that it was Tucker and not Wally who barked _get away from my brother_.

By the time he’s tucked into bed in his Captain America pajamas, looking up at the luminous stars on his bedroom ceiling, he can almost make himself believe that that’s how it really happened.


End file.
